#oth1

It's not just rain, either. It's a classic Chicago rainstorm in that it started to torrential downpour out of nowhere. I had been halfway home from the train stop when I felt a drop and heard the rumble of the sky. From there I had connected the chest strap of my backpack, stuck my phone in my bra, and sprinted in my boots to reach my front door before the sky opened up.

Which is how I’d found myself here, stood on my front porch with a sticky layer of sweat covering me, what I'm pretty sure is a blister on my left foot from running in my boots, and my key in the lock on the door that will not turn.

I had been having this problem for weeks. Sometimes my front door lock would turn and the door would open without a problem. Other times, the lock would stick a bit and I would have to jiggle the key and the handle a few times before it finally opened.

Now, it's simply not opening. The key was in the lock, and the lock was steadfastly not turning, not even a Millimeter. I kept turning the key in the lock or trying to, and absolutely nothing was coming from it. 

My frustration had started to bubble to the surface when a rumble of thunder sounded and made me jump. I actually screamed out loud in fright.

I caught my breath.

“Get a trip, Ruby. Get. A. Grip,” I mumbled to myself as I ran a hand through my hair and tried again with the door.

Nothing.

It looked like I might be getting wet after all. If I ran ‘round the back of the house and let myself in the back way, I’d get myself soaked through in a moment.

I didn't want to get wet. I really didn't want to get wet. So I ripped my key from the lock and moments before I jumped off the porch to run around I shoved the key back in the door and tried again. My determination to get through the front door had settled throughout my entire being.

Still, nothing happened, and I could feel it as my frustration turned to anger at the stupid lock while I tried over and over again to get the key to turn.

After what seemed like an eternity of me just stood on my porch helplessly with the anger growing inside me threatening to bubble over, the key began to budge a bit in the lock. It took a few more jiggles after that, but finally, it relented and gave in and the door was unlocked.

I was in.

Once inside the building, I jogged up the stairs to the second story apartment and, after unlocking that second door with no problems, made my way into my tiny little apartment.

Once I’d slipped my boots off and dropped my backpack onto a chair near the door I made my way to the bathroom. There, I splashed my face with warm water to rinse away some of the sweat.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and sighed. The bags under my eyes have apparently become permanent fixtures on my face. God, it seems as if my 26 is everyone else's 45. At least, that's what it feels like the stress has done to my face.

I was situated above an empty first-floor apartment. My landlord had lived there for a few months after I'd moved in because he was upgrading it all. After he’d finished and moved back into his own home, I'd had a pair of college boys living there for a year.

Now though, the apartment has been empty for going on three months. It's been wonderful because I can make as much noise as I like.

It’s not that I'm all that loud on a regular basis, but after a stressful day, I liked to pour a glass of whiskey, connect my phone to my speaker, and dance around the apartment to loud music, drowning out my thoughts and the busy street below.

That had been the plan for tonight as well until my phone started ringing. I was in the middle of reaching for the whiskey bottle, my favorite glass already on the counter in front of me when the pop song set as my ringtone rang out loudly.

It scared me more than it should have because I'd forgotten that I'd put it in my bra when I sprinted home. I pulled out the phone and saw that it was Cleo. I worked to get my heart rate slowed and I clicked the answer button.

“RU-BY!” Cleo sang into the phone in her sing-song voice. I pulled the phone from my ear and put it on speaker so that I could continue to pour my drink and move around the kitchen while looking for something to munch on.

“Something so rank has happened.”

I smiled to myself as I spun and spotted my plantain chips. They were one of the things I could eat a literal mountain of and never be bored of. 

I hadn't even said a word yet and Cleo had already started with her story. She had a date last night and I'd been waiting all day for her update regarding how it went.

“And so here I am, at dinner with this girl and she just starts talking about her ex-girlfriend,” she said in that exasperated tone of hers that I know so well. Cleo has a case of the dramatics, and I love it because there's never a dull moment with her.

I write a reminder on my notepad to text my landlord about the lock and jump up to sit on the counter. 

“Well,” I sighed. “Sometimes people just have trouble moving on if the relationship was really influential.” I paused and brought my glass to my lips before I thought of something to add. “Maybe it was her first girlfriend. Or her first time admitting she’s a lesbian. That might be the only thing she has to talk about at this point.”

Cleo snorted. “Honestly, Rubes, I wish it was that.”

“It was worse?”

“It was worse.”

“How?”

Cleo took a deep breath. That's how I knew, really knew the something rank she’d first referred to was about to be revealed. I revelled in the pause before she spoke again, the anticipation of a Cleo story sitting in my belly as my brain started to come up with possible answers to my question. I was sure none of my made-up thoughts were nearly as good as the real deal though.

“Ruby,” Cleo said dramatically. “She started talking about sex, all kinds of sexual activities, all kinds of techniques…and I swear, she forking went into gory detail for everything she was saying. She was talking about her and her ex! Everything they did together as if it would turn me on or something!” Her voice had risen at least two octaves as she retold the events of last night. 

“I felt like every eye in the restaurant was on us and I can honestly say I've never been redder with embarrassment, more visibly uncomfortable in my entire life than I was last night.”

That was saying something, too. Cleo wasn't lacking in the confidence department. Once she'd realized she was a lesbian her sophomore year of college it was like a flip switched in her and all of her insecurities regarding who she was just vanished.

Of course, she was still insecure about normal things, like her dismal cooking skills or her career choice being all sorts of wrong, but her personal life and dating life were not topics she shied away from whether in practice or retelling.

Cleo, who was a little on the taller side, was a mix of ethnicities and between her dark eyes that could pierce through you, and her full lips that were always perfectly pouty, and her thick curly hair, she was a knockout. The thing she really had going for her though was the way she exuded confidence in all social situations. It was what drew people to her, including her friends.

Which is why the thought of her red-faced and embarrassed in a restaurant seemed so comical to me.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed.

“Don't laugh at me!” Cleo called through the phone speaker. “The worst part is that we hadn't even gotten our food yet, so I had to try and steer the conversation back to more normal topics for the next forty minutes. It just barely worked, too,” she sighed. “If it didn't I'd probably just have thrown some cash on the table and walked out.”

“Are you finally done with dating apps then?”

“It was one embarrassment, Ruby. I’m not opening up a monastery and swearing off having a good time. No offense to nuns,” she added.

I laughed at her response. Cleo was nothing if not consistent. I was truly lucky to have found her in college. Cleo was originally from the suburbs of Chicago and always knew she would move back to the city after graduation, even before landing her job teaching second graders.

The way she talked about the city back in college would give me butterflies. The good kind, of course. Back then, I was a just a shy girl from St. Louis that had made the biggest move of her life to go to college in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Then I got offered a job in Chicago a year after graduating, so I packed up and left Missouri a second time.

I lived with Cleo, crashing on her couch for a few months before saving enough to finally afford a safety deposit and for a nice one bedroom apartment to finally open up.

Cleo and I had lived together for three years in college, so it wasn't hard for us to live in close quarters for a bit, but not having my own room whenever Cleo happened to bring someone home was something I was not accustomed to. I love her, but I was so glad to finally have gotten my own place when I did.

She'd been by my side through pretty much everything and I would stay by hers as well. The going was never consistently smooth for either of us, but we stuck it out no matter what because that's what you do for people you love. You keep showing up. 

Cleo was also the reason I met Ana, Harry, and Liam. Her teacher friends have become part of our group and, along with Louis from my work, the six of us have become incredibly close. 

We go out as a sixsome at least once a week somehow, whether it be brunch or a night out on the weekend or we all gather at one of our apartments and make dinner during the week. In November we’ll have our third annual Friendsgiving.

This week, we’re meeting up tomorrow evening for a few drinks at one of the bars in my neighborhood. I had thought Cleo might hold this story in until then, but apparently, it was too good to hold back.

“Was the food good at least?” I asked as I opened my bag of chips and bit into one.

“Of course it was good.” I can tell she's rolled her eyes at me by just her tone. “It was Aurelio’s.”

My stomach rumbled at the thought of pizza, really good, thin-crust pizza.

“Fair point,” I conceded as I ate another chip.

“Are you eating those weird chips you love so much?” Cleo asked.

“No,” I answered around my mouth full of chip as I looked down at my phone suspiciously.

“You are.”

“So?”

“You really need to learn how to eat unhealthy again,” she said.

“I'm plenty unhealthy,” I defended myself before taking a sip of my whiskey as if to prove my point to myself.

“College Ruby, who was plenty healthy, would be shocked if she took note of the lack of Oreos in your kitchen right now,” Cleo informed me.

I did always have a stash for us to share after a long week, or day sometimes depending on the events.

“I've got that vegan Oreo ice cream in my freezer right now!” 

“I'm not even justifying that,” Cleo said, the disdain clearly laced through her tone.

“Hey,” I grumbled. “Oh, have you checked the weather for tomorrow?”

“It's supposed to rain all night tonight and then clear up in the morning. Nothing to impede with our plans,” Cleo assured me.

“Oh, sick.” I leaned my shoulders against the cabinets and closed my eyes as I began to feel the whiskey sink into my bloodstream.

“Hey, I've gotta go grade papers before I fork off and ignore my responsibilities all weekend, but I love you and I'll see you tomorrow, Rubes.”

I love the way she calls me Rubes. Growing up my parents were very strict with me and my sister to only call us by our middle names, so to have a friend who calls me by my first name and uses a nickname at that? It feels really special. It was something I didn't have until I went to college and I relished it once I acquired it.

“Bye! Love you too, Cleo.”

“Byeee,” she called and then the line cut out.

The silence would be deafening if not for the sound of rain absolutely battering my windows and roof. It's one of my favorite sounds, but I'm glad I'm now inside rather than out there where it would soak me through.

“Hey, Google,” I called over my shoulder as I scrubbed my kitchen sink. “Play my 70s Playlist on shuffle.”

“Oh, what a night! Late December back in ‘63!” I started belting out Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons as it played from my speaker. 

It was the little things that made cleaning bearable for me. I typically don't mind cleaning, but after my week I'd wanted to sleep in and lounge around in my jammies all day not go for a run and then deep clean my kitchen.

But that's what I did. I got up for my run and then started deep cleaning my kitchen. I was definitely going to need a nap before my night out with my friends. 

I did need to go get groceries too, though. I huffed out a breath as I started moving my hips and swaying my lower body while my entire upper body tensed up as I focused on scrubbing my sink.

I was so close to being done. The cabinets and fridge had been cleaned and reorganised, the oven, counters and stove had all been cleaned, the floor had been scrubbed, and once I finished the sink I only had to take out the trash and recycling before I'd officially finished cleaning for the day.

I had started off by listening to top 40 playlists before I'd moved on to boy bands of the 90s 00s and now. It was almost as if I was working backwards through music. Currently, I was throwing it back a little older.

I swiped my forearm across my forehead to wick away the sweat, and it made me glad I didn't shower after my run. I was one of those people that sweats easily.

I was aching and sore, too. My back feeling it from being bent over while scrubbing the floor, and my shoulders were burning from the counters and sink. My legs hurt because I pushed myself in my run earlier. 

I am a bit of a wreck at the moment. Although I felt like judging by the week I had, wreck might just become my standard state.

I work in a bakery. I'm not an actual baker. But it's why I run. I'd never be able to stay fit otherwise with all the baked goods just lying about around me. Plus, Louis was always using me as a taste test subject.

It's why Cleo thinks it's funny I'm so healthy. I eat vegetable chips and I work out twice a day. I only drink water or tea--whiskey being my one occasional exception.

In college, I was quite healthy, but I'd taken it to another level since moving to Chicago. I'd lost a lot of weight when I first moved here. I had always been a little chubby, but once I'd moved to the city, I made an effort like I'd never done before. Twenty-five pounds lighter I was happier, healthier, and all-around food nerd.

I geek out over fresh vegetables and really good deals on nutritional yeast. I love talking recipes to anyone who will listen or has their own to share, and I've been hard-pressed to find someone that actually likes tofu as much as I do.

Louis, the owner of a small local bakery chain, makes fun of me for it as well. He thinks it's quite funny how I work out every day and I barely ever eat any of the product. He's been teasing me since he hired me.

He needed an accountant and that's where I came in. He'd just opened his third store when he realized he needed help with the numbers.

He and I work in his original location down in Gold Coast. It's his most popular location, but it's also been there for five years and has built an established following within the community.

Louis is a baker by trade and knew he was always going to be surrounded by baking for the rest of his life. He’s from the suburbs and went to the University of Chicago. Whilst there he would perfect recipes and when he was a junior he started a business of making orders on-demand before he finally earned enough to open the flagship store right after he graduated.

Five years on from that, the twenty-seven-year-old has two more locations open and is stuck with me as a friend. He and I had instant chemistry. Even when my interview for the position was over video call we could both tell we had a connection to each other that would make working together as easy and as second nature as breathing.

I accepted the offer for the position for a few reasons. One was location, I wanted to be in Chicago. Two was Louis, he just seemed like someone really wonderful to work with. Three was because I knew I'd not be working with a large soulless conglomerate. I'd studied Economics and Business. I didn't want to be on Wall Street or the like, so this job seemed to fit. 

I did not take the position for the salary. Louis was able to pay me decent enough, and he did pretty well for himself, but I knew I could make more almost anywhere else. I just didn't want to. Sure, a six- or seven-figure salary would be nice, but I'm happy and comfortable.

Louis is one of my best friends and he's always making me his Sous Chef--or, baker--whenever I have a spare moment from running his business.

The joke is that I don't really have any spare moments, but he makes me bake with him anyway. It's always fun and almost always ends up with one of us doubling over in laughter.

Although Louis keeps his doors open seven days a week, he forces me home on the weekends, knowing I can catch up on the slower weekdays.

The poor guy works six of those seven days, too. He chooses whenever he gets his day off, but typically it's Sunday because he's hungover and Louis knows himself well enough to know the state he'll be in.

I dropped the scrubber in the sink and admired my work for a moment. Quickly though, I threw it in a basket under the sink and turned the water on to rinse. Both basins were sparkling. I was satisfied with that.

I peeled off my gloves and re-tied my hair, my bangs not even pretending to cooperate. I stepped into my slides and with the recycling bin in one hand and a garbage bag in the other I descended the stairs at the back of the house and stepped into the rather chilly mid-September air. It was currently false fall.

Once back inside I locked both back doors and then made my way to the bathroom to shower and get the grime off of me. I was feeling exceptionally gross. Plus, I could put off getting groceries until tomorrow. I had enough food in the fridge to make it work until then.

I washed off the grime as the speaker played Easy by The Commodores from the other room. I could feel the muscles in my body releasing with the steam.

The bakery was doing well, but Louis was asking about possibly opening up a fourth location. I don't think he's too serious about it. I think he’s content with three. 

I think by having me check if he could potentially open a fourth, he's actually trying to figure out how well he’s handling three. Seeing his profit margins and expenditures for the past year and having me make projections for the next two years is a big help for him to just gauge the lifeline of the business as it is.

A fourth location would definitely spread him too thin, but sometimes Louis gets funny when talking about his successes in the business, so I think he's just trying to figure out where he’s at without talking about it directly.

I'll probably get him to talk about it soon though. Just to advise him against a fourth bakery. Not that he couldn't handle four in terms of financial ability, he could. I just think it's better for him to keep three, stay stable, and keep himself sane rather than just keep building and building for the sake of it.

The number-crunching and organizing and predicting… although I love it and it's fun for me, to be hunched over a computer and databases takes a toll on my shoulders and my eyes. A few times throughout the week I got up and walked around the storefront just to be away from my screens.

By the time I turn the water off I feel sleepy from the heat and don't even get dressed. I end up just drying off and wrapping my hair in a towel before climbing into bed wearing only my robe, setting an alarm for an hour or so later and then just slipping into unconsciousness.

“Get a load of this guy, Ruby.” Harry elbowed me gently in my side while nodding in Liam’s direction as he walked over to us.

“What?” I asked quietly as Liam drew nearer. Cleo and Louis were at the bar getting us our second round while Liam was coming over as a late arrival. He had an apartment showing that went late apparently.

On Harry’s other side, his fiancé, Ana chastised him. “Oh shut up, Haz. He was working.” She pulled one of his curls.

“I'm not talking about him being late,” Harry defended himself. “I'm talking about the glasses!”

Ana rolled her eyes and shrugged before finishing her last sip of wine knowing that the next glass would be in front of her momentarily.

I sniggered. Liam has never worn his glasses out in public with us. A few times I've seen him wearing them when I've stayed over his place after a night out or a party. They're kind of adorable, but also a little bit dorky. I can see why Harry said something.

“We ordered you an IPA.” Cleo came back to the table just behind Liam who had only just opened his mouth to greet us. She passed out our drinks as Liam thanked her.

“You're a dream come true.” he leaned in and hugged her before they took their seats. He then leaned across the table to kiss my cheek.

Louis came back and handed off my drink and took a sip of his own as he sat beside Cleo and then passed the other drink over to Liam.

“I don't know why you're thanking her when I'm the one who carried it over,” Louis grumbled.

“Because she has a story to tell and I'm trying to butter her up so that she'll embellish is as much as possible.” Liam brushed his arm against Cleo’s. She rolled her eyes, but the smile that slipped onto her lips was undeniable.

“You are all ridiculous.” She shook her head. “But I know you've all been dying to hear it, so here we go.” She settled in to tell her tale of the epically disastrous date.

I watched as all of our friends reacted to various points and details throughout, having already heard the events the night before. I sipped my water and zoned in and out. I noticed the old Eagles song on the radio and the way the TVs in the corners flickered between whatever sport was on each and the commercials filling in the gaps.

I noticed the man in the corner who kept leaning into the woman he was with, trying to see if she'd notice his hints. I noticed the younger bartender who kept avoiding the stares of the women ordering and just went about his job dutifully, sometimes with a bright pink tinge to his cheeks.

I was keen to notice the way Harry’s fingers would trace along Ana’s arm as they listened to Cleo, or the way Louis was giggling, already somehow knowing how this story would go from bad to worse.

I felt good. I felt comfort being around these people. My friends, my fellow patrons--a few of them regulars I'd become familiar with--, and just everyone in between was making me feel an ease I could sit within and enjoy.

Two hours and many other various stories later Louis and I were sitting leaning against each other as Harry and Ana detailed the latest wedding planning drama. I had my feet propped up in Liam’s lap as Cleo wandered off to use the restroom.

I was still getting used to the idea that my friends were getting married. At twenty-six I felt far too young and naive to make life decisions like that, but when I looked at Ana and Harry I knew they were perfect for each other. Plus, they were each a few years older than me, and their love was palpable. Of course they were getting married.

It wasn't just love though. They got along, teased each other, riled each other up like no other, and somehow they still managed to find happiness and stability together. They were such wonderful humans to others, as well. The only person good enough for Ana was Harry and vice versa.

Their engagement was relatively recent, only three months ago, and I could tell, for them, it was still a thrill every day. I loved just watching them interact and looking around myself at Liam and Louis I could tell I wasn't the only one.

“I think I'm out for the night.” Cleo came back up to the table and startled me.

“What? Already?” Louis asked as he checked his watch. I checked my own: 11:43.

I don't know how he did it. Late nights prepping for early mornings at the bakery, maybe, but these days by 11PM--earlier if I was being honest with myself--I was ready for bed. Even with my nap earlier I was feeling tired.

“I have a big science week to prepare for,” Cleo explained herself. “A bunch of second graders making messes of volcanoes and who knows what else?” Louis and Liam simultaneously shudder at the thought. I sniggered at their reactions.

“Brunch next Sunday then?” Liam asked the table as Cleo pulled her coat on.

We all agreed that that sounded perfect and as Cleo said her goodbyes I pulled on my own coat and made to leave with her.

“Turning in?” Ana asked me knowingly.

I nodded and stuck my thumb in Louis’ direction. “This one just about worked me to the death this week.”

Louis held his hands up in mock disbelief. “I wasn't that bad.”

“He really wasn't,” I agreed. “I just like blaming him for things.”

“It is quite fun always having someone to blame.” Ana smirked and elbowed Harry.

“Heyyyyyyy,” he complained in indignation, but his smile gave him away.

“I'll see you guys soon, okay?” Louis, Liam, Harry, and Ana all stood up again to hug me, telling me they'd see me soon, and then I'm on my way, catching up with Cleo who's stood outside the pub waiting for me.

Cleo was getting on the train and I was walking that way to get home, so we walked the two short blocks together. Neither of us needed to say anything as we walked, just being comfortable in the silence was enough. 

“Let me know when you get home alright?” I asked Cleo as she stepped away to get into the station. 

“Will do, Ruby.” She smiled before heading off. 

I started my short walk home humming to myself some song I'd heard in the bar earlier.

It was when I was on my street that I heard the footsteps behind me. Out of habit, I picked up my pace a little bit, seeing my home come into my vision as I did so, my keys clenched tightly in my hand.

I quickly looked over my shoulder and saw a man in a jacket, the hood up, as he walked.

I was trying not to be too obvious that I was picking up my pace because this was far from the first time I'd walked home with others walking behind me.

I often would find myself being paranoid about this pretty regular occurrence in my life and after I was safely in my home I'd be stuck feeling somewhat guilty that they had walked past me without saying a word. I'd judged a normal person on the regular for just going on with his or her life.

I blame my mother for my paranoia. She was a small-town girl from Missouri and even the suburbs of St. Louis were big for her. She was horrified when I'd moved to Chicago, and even still I'll occasionally get links to news reports from her. It might help if she actually came and saw the city, explored it a bit herself, but she’d never come up.

I opened my gate and had climbed my steps when I heard my gate open again behind me.

I felt myself freeze, my veins turn to ice. I shoved my key in my lock and that's when I remembered how finicky it could be.

Shit.

As I heard the footsteps on my stairs I sent up a plea to anyone listening that my lock would work. Just this once.

My plea was not answered. I tried turning my key and turning it and nothing happened. I wanted to scream. I tried turning the key again and still, nothing happened.

Until something else did.

I felt a large hand slip around my throat and suddenly I was being yanked backward against a solid body, my windpipe being squeezed roughly as a voice shook out of the chest my back was pressed to.

“Give me your wallet!” His harsh voice came out right beside my ear.

I tried to yell, I did, but all that came out was a ghastly ragged sound, and his hand squeezed tighter around my neck. I could feel the tears stinging as they leaked from my eyes as I struggled to free myself, scratching his arm with my keys that were still in my right hand.

He used his free hand and grabbed them from me and threw them to the ground before he wrapped his arm around mine and pinned my arm against me.

“Stop fucking struggling and hand over your bag!”

I was shaking. My windpipe was burning as I tried to breathe enough to be even a bit more comfortable, but I couldn't. I could feel myself weakening as my oxygen supply depleted and I tried to struggle against his grasp.

I'd seen enough movies to know what the next sound was. It was like my hearing has blocked out everything but that next sound, isolating it to make sure I understood. He'd opened a switchblade.

I closed my eyes and took what I thought would be my last breath (shallow as it might be), and I somehow managed to get out the word.

“Okay.”

It sounded strange to my own ears, my voice small and quaking from fear and from the hand still holding me around my throat. I hated how weak I sounded. I hated what was happening.

I reached down and grabbed my bag, handing it over as quickly as I could manage with fumbling fingers. My bag, with all my bank cards, $83 cash, my I.D., and my Ventra card. He didn't check its contents though, just accepted it as I handed it over.

With that, I felt myself being squeezed tightly one last time, my throat actually closing completely for a moment, my ribs twinging uncomfortably with the pressure before everything was gone.

Suddenly I was alone on my front porch. My throat burned as my lungs tried to suck in as much air as possible, my eyes stung with fresh tears. I sank to the ground, my knees meeting the wood with an echoing thud that I was sure would've hurt more if I was paying attention.

I brought my hands up to my neck automatically and regretted it when I could feel the bruises already forming. I knew I was lucky it wasn't worse, lucky that I was still alive, but as I gasped for air on my front porch I couldn't feel lucky.